Scholastica

  I am Mycobacterium, cloaked in disguise, A cunning rod, too small for eyes. I ride the breath, I seek the deep, Where warmth and blood are mine to keep. I settle soft in silent lobes, A phantom seed in crimson robes, Macrophages rise, engulf in vain. I weave in cells, I build my throne, Necrotic halls of death and bone. A hollowed space, a breathless tomb, Where air dissolves and caverns bloom. I do not strike with haste or roar, I linger, fester—claiming more. At stealthy dawn, I am nothing more than a sigh, A tired yawn, a passing chill, A cough brushed away with a careless hand-- Nothing to fear, nothing to my name. Quiet descent latter, I take more than I give,  Breaths turn shallow, brittle and unsure  The nights are drenched in fever’s grip. Ribs protrude, frame turns light, As hunger fades like waning flame. Each meal untouched, no taste remains, Yet none can see, none call my name. Unbeknownst to them, I am not just sickness—I am silence. I steal voices, not ju...